


senbazuru

by justanotherblond



Series: timshel [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Light Angst, M/M, Mechanic Bucky Barnes, Mentions of Violence, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Origami, Parent Bucky Barnes, Parent Steve Rogers, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Therapy, and a good "step"dad, more like kids being jerks, very minor like barely grazed over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 09:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18280238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherblond/pseuds/justanotherblond
Summary: On a warm Saturday morning when Papa didn’t have work, Peter jumped onto the couch beside his father. His dingy, hand-me-down laptop he got from May rocked on his knees and threatened to crash on the floor.Papa hissed and caught it with his left hand, “Jesus Petrushka, are you trying to break things?”Peter ignored him, a cheeky grin spread across his face as he twisted and sat correctly on the couch, “I found it.”“Found what?” Papa asked, tilting the computer his way to read the screen.On it was a blog post with the title in large, bolded font“The Legend of the Thousand Paper Cranes.”***TheSenbazuru, or the One Thousand Origami Cranes, was believed to bring good fortune to the creator. Some believed it could bring recovery from injury or illness. If theSenbazuruis completed in a year, then this recovery would be granted upon them. Since Peter's recovery had taken an unexpected regression when he came home with a softball-sized black eye, Bucky figured it wouldn't be a bad idea to help him find a new coping mechanism. Little did he know that it would come in a thousand paper birds.





	senbazuru

**Author's Note:**

> so this isn't the sequel, but i've been having a lot of trouble with that (meaning i have the whole outline and i've written chapter one i just sort of...hate it) BUT to get me out of my writer's block funk, i figured a one-shot couldn't hurt.  
> hope you guys like it!
> 
> i made a rebloggable post [here](https://blondieewritess.tumblr.com/post/183804153934/senbazuru-by-justanotherblond-on-a-warm)

Peter thought this part was over. 

The recovery, the medicine, the therapists. They all took care of this. 

A thousand times he was told that it wasn’t on him. A thousand times they said he wasn’t the one responsible. A thousand times they said he wasn’t given a choice. They said it again and again until it became a drumbeat in the back of his mind. 

_“It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”_

And yet, the guilt was so thick it felt like black tar pooling down his back. It burnt his flesh and ripped out hair on its journey down. No matter how many times they tried to help him, it never went away. 

Sometimes it was muted, like a dull pinch or a sharp hiss in his ear. Keeping himself distracted used to help and with all his homework and extracurriculars it was working for a while. But that help petered off until it was nothing but static noise and hollow shells. 

He spent a little too much time tugging at his hair and scratching his forearms until it looked like he was mauled by a housecat. He stood a little too close to the subway as it rushed past and he was careless when crossing the street. 

His father would pull him back by his wrist or shirt collar and hiss, “Careful, Petya! It’s like you’re trying to get run over.” and Peter wouldn’t think of anything to say back. 

Sometimes the pain would soak up the guilt. Keep it in the back of his mind, though a little heavy, for at least a little while. 

But when the pain was gone, the guilt returned. 

It always did. 

***

The clicking was what woke him up first. Then the strobing of lights he could see through his eyelids. Orange to black to orange to black. Finally, a loud, “Alright Petey Pete! Time to get up.”

Peter groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow. 

Steve laughed from his spot in the doorway, stopping his flickering but keeping the obnoxiously bright light on, “C’mon Peter, up and at ‘em!” 

Peter groaned again, louder this time, and clasped his hands over his ears. “Five more minutes,” He whined, muffled into the pillow. 

“No can do, kiddo. C’mon, up,” Steve said, voice a little firmer but not strict. It was an annoying dad voice he had perfected, perhaps even better than Papa had. 

Peter, being a stubborn thirteen-year-old who thrived off sleeping in, was nearly immune to it. He kept his face in his pillow and let the weight of sleep sitting in his brain, heavier and heavier until – 

“Peter Parker, get out of bed and stop giving Steve a hard time!” Papa scolded from the kitchen, muffled only by the sizzling of eggs and the drywall that sat between them. 

Peter huffed and pushed himself up off the pillow, “I’m up!” 

He shoved his hair out of his face and turned towards Steve with a sleep filled glare. 

Steve was leaning on the door frame, arms crossed with an amused look on his face. He quirked an eyebrow and asked, “You sure you’re up?” 

“He better be,” Bucky called out before Peter could answer, “Or else his eggs are gonna get cold and rubbery. I don’t want to hear any whining about rubbery eggs, Petya!” 

Peter rolled his eyes and kicked off his sheets, hopping out of bed and grumbling, “I’m up. I’m up.” 

Steve chuckled and stepped away from the doorway, closing the door behind him so Peter could shove on the first pair of clean jeans he could reach and a _Fellowship of the Ring_ graphic tee. He tugged on his shoes and grabbed his backpack from his desk chair, knocking over a stack of old homework assignments and stray Legos. 

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back, breathing very slowly out of his nose. He could already tell it was going to be one of those days. 

***

Peter could count on one hand how many times he’d made it through the school doors before the final bell rang. He usually sprinted from the subway station to his redbrick school building, Papa or Steve not far behind in case his backpack fell, or someone snatched or shot him on his way. 

He was three minutes late to his first class, even though it hadn’t started, and the room was still buzzing in excited teen chatter. He slid into his seat beside Ned hoping he snuck in unnoticed. 

“Late again, Mr. Parker?” His geometry teacher, Ms. Wiess asked while slipping a pink tardy notice across his desk, “One more this semester and we’ll have to set up a parent-teacher conference.” 

Peter huffed in defeat while she walked away to take her place at the front of the room. 

Ned’s mouth was open in shock, before leaning over to whisper-yell in Peter’s ear, “Dude, it’s like she’s doing this on purpose. Don’t worry, next time I’ll cover for you.” 

Peter pressed his lips together in a faux smile and nodded. Ned was sweet and all but if he even tried to speak back to a teacher, he’d cry. 

The rest of the day went by just the same. Peter couldn’t find it in him to talk much. He nodded numbly along to whatever Ned said and mindlessly took notes. When he saw Liz in the cafeteria, he was too tired to even blush. 

He was just tired. He hadn’t slept much. He had a bad start to his day. He just wanted to go home. But deep down in the part of his mind that could have cobwebs because of how little it was used, he knew this was stemming from something else. 

Every time things went a little awry or there was a smidge of a chance he’d get into trouble with someone who wasn’t his father, he’d shut down. Dr. Kafka said it was something like a defense mechanism. If he got in trouble at the compound, he’d usually get hurt or screamed at. It was easier to shut everything off and feel nothing than to be present and feel it all. 

Unfortunately, on days where Peter shut down, he’d have to start back up again. When he’d start back up, he’d fall into a funk of nauseous guilt that he couldn’t quite shake.

As the final bell rang and every student scurried to pack up their bags and rush to the front doors, Peter felt a relaxing wave of relief that he could finally go home. That was until he remembered he had gymnastics practice until six. 

That was a problem because Peter didn’t have his bag and practice was all the way in Sunnyside, which was a good twenty-minute subway ride on a good day. 

“Noooo!” Peter groaned, thumping his head on his desk. The classroom was nearly empty. Only Ned was left with him, who was patiently waiting beside Peter’s chair for him to finish packing. 

“Peter? Are you okay?” Ned asked, leaning down to try and look at Peter’s face, “Do you feel sick?” 

“No,” Peter grumbled, standing up to zip up his backpack and throw it on, “I forgot I had practice and I don’t have my bag.” He started rushing towards the front door, turning around to call, “Sorry, I can’t walk you home, but I’ll see you tomorrow!” 

With that, he sprinted down the halls, the echoes of Ned’s, “See you tomorrow!” following him. 

He shouldered past and through groups of gossiping teens and chattering teachers before he finally made it to the entrance. With everything that happened today, he couldn’t take being late one more time. The look of disappointment on his coach’s face or how he’d pull the attention of other members on the team when he’d run through the doors late. He just couldn’t do it. 

He ran down the sidewalk, weaving in and out of groups of parents and cars, towards his dad’s garage. 

The mechanic was only a couple blocks closer to school than their apartment was, but Papa had a habit of bringing Peter’s gym bag there anytime he forgot it so he wouldn’t have to go all the way home. 

He made it there relatively quickly, but he would’ve been faster if there weren’t so many people and cars and why the hell was there always traffic in New York? 

He ran up to the garage opening, heaving wind not because he was out of it but because his chest was tight with panic. 

The sound of sharp buzzing and cranking mixed with heavy rock music was loud enough to rock Peter’s stomach. He never knew how they could work with all that noise. It didn’t help that the tangy smell of oil, gas and copper never dissipated. He’d either get a migraine or vomit halfway through his shift. 

Good thing his dad would never in a million years let him work there. Which was fine because even though Peter knew enough about them, he really had no interest in cars. 

“Hey, Pete,” Mr. Reilly, the garage owner, said above a car magazine he was reading, “your dad’s working on the ’09 Hyundai Accord,” He turned around and called over his shoulder, “Barnes, your kid is here!” 

“Hey honey,” Papa called from under the car’s hood, “your bag’s next to my toolbox.” 

Peter walked over and grabbed it with shaky, slippery fingers. He threw the strap over his shoulder and fully intended on bidding farewell to his dad and Mr. Reilly so he could sprint to the gymnasium. But his dad must have seen something on Peter’s face because he stopped Peter before he could make a run for it. 

“What’s wrong?” Papa asked while standing upright and grabbing the rag off his shoulder to wipe his hands clean. He reached forward to press the back of his still smudged hand to Peter’s forehead, “You feelin’ okay?” 

Peter nodded but his face was still a little frantic. He twisted the bag strap until his fingers chafed and ducked away from his father’s hand. “I’m gonna be late!” He snapped, voice high but he hadn’t moved towards the door. 

Papa lifted his hands in surrender, “Alright, calm down,” he said, and Peter took a deep breath, “they won’t be mad if you’re a couple of minutes late.” 

Peter groaned, tilting back before rocking forward. His forehead collided with his father’s sternum. 

Papa huffed a laughed, half because Peter nearly knocked the wind out of him and the other because sometimes Peter could be a touch dramatic. He patted Peter between his shoulder blades. 

“I can’t be late,” Peter whined, voice muffled because his face was still pressed against Papa’s scratchy coveralls, “I got in trouble this morning because I was late to school, and I was late to practice last week, and Felicia was annoyed and –”

“Petya! Take a breath. You are fine,” Papa laughed, a little exasperated, “Maybe you should just skip practice today. Stevie’s home from work already so you can –”

“No!” Peter cried, pushing himself away a hair so he could look his father in the face, “No, I need to go. I want to go.” 

Papa sighed so deep it rocked Peter before he gently nudged him away towards the door. 

“Alright well, hurry up then. You got a five-minute sprint ahead of you to get to the subway on time,” Papa said but Peter had already started running. 

***

Practice was terrible. He’d forgotten half of his floor routine, fell off the beam and dropped Marlene, who he was supposed to spot. 

And now, he was left to walk home alone. Marlene and Isabella, two girls who lived on his block, usually walked back home with him after practice. But today, Peter had smiled apologetically and told them to take off without him just before he locked himself in the boys’ bathroom and cried. 

His wet hiccupping and harsh sniffling echoed off the tiled walls as he sat on a closed toilet in a locked stall. Everyone had left for the night except for the owner Felicia Hardy, who was keeping books in her office. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and took deep shuddering breaths to calm himself down but would immediately fall into a fresh wave of new sobs. 

When he’d finally calmed down, left the stall and shucked on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, it was already reaching dusk. He didn’t rush. He’d just tell his dad that practice went over since they had a meet that weekend. Papa would understand, he always did. He was a good father. 

But that didn’t stop the guilt from bubbling up and chewing Peter’s gut. 

Days like this always made him feel it the worst. Walking home alone where it was just him and his loud mind didn’t help. Even though pedestrians yelled and laughed as they rushed around him and cars honked and breaks screeched and drivers yelled, Peter was trapped inside his own head. 

All he could think about was Marlene’s face when he let her fall. How she couldn’t breathe for a moment because the wind was knocked out of her lungs. How she took a deep gulp of breath like she was dying. How she sounded just like the girl back at the compound when she laid bleeding on the mat because he almost killed her. 

His bag thumbed his legs to the beat of his heart. One hand was scratching harder and harder at his wrist, the sharp sting barely shifting his focus from his loud mind. 

The city was morphing from high-end New York skyscrapers to run down, condemned buildings and cracked pavement. The sun was sinking, and the sky was becoming dim, but he’d be home before it was dark. 

At least, he would have been if there wasn't an awful squawk and squeaky laughs coming from the alleyway beside him. Peter stopped and turned towards the noise. 

Along the scum stained garbage bins and graffitied brick walls stood three older teens throwing firecrackers at a herd of stray cats. The cats hissed and yowled and scratched their paws, but they were cornered. 

Peter’s body worked before his mind because he had already dropped his bag and ran over screaming, “Hey!” before it caught up. 

The group turned towards him, each wearing an unimpressed sneer. 

“Pick on someone your own size!” 

The biggest of the group, a boy with a shaved head and about two-hundred of pure fat, laughed and asked, “Is that supposed to be you?” 

Peter kept running, growing faster and faster the closer he got. 

He could’ve taken them. Hell, he could’ve killed them without much of a thought. He’d taken bigger, stronger, more. 

When the biggest lifted his curled fist and swung it towards Peter’s face, Peter knew just how to duck and kick the boy’s legs so they snapped like twigs. He knew how to jump right back up and fight the others. 

He just…didn’t. 

***

Peter walked through the front door with his head tilted down. He had fixed his hair just so to cover the bruise the size of a softball that marked the right side of his face. 

He was surprised it hadn’t healed by now. When he fell in gym, slipped off the uneven bars or scraped his knees after he tumbled in the park, any mark would heal in thirty minutes. 

It had only been twenty, and they did hit him hard enough for it to bleed a little. And it’s been a while since his face had been smashed into a brick wall. 

The cut and bruise were ugly enough to be noticed right away, but maybe if Peter moved quickly enough to his room and pretended to be swamped with homework, then perhaps his dad wouldn’t notice. All he had to do was get through the living room without being noticed. 

“Petya, come help me with dinner,” Papa called from the kitchen, stirring a steaming pot of water and spaghetti, “I need someone to make the salad. You know if I ask Steve, he’ll end up burning it.” 

“Hey!” Steve interjected from his and Papa’s bedroom, where he was undoubtedly working on some debrief or waiting to Skype a senator. Even on the rare days where he came home before seven, he was still working. 

“I got homework,” Peter said in a rush, hurrying towards his room and keeping his head down. He almost made it when – 

“What the hell is that?” 

Peter froze mid-step. The high, tight, frightened tone laced in his dad’s voice made his blood turn cold. 

So much for not being noticed. 

“What is what?” Steve called from the bedroom, voice also a little panicky. 

“It’s nothing,” Peter responded, voice barely above a whisper. The last thing he wanted to do was freak his dad out. And it wasn’t like this was a big deal. Peter had gone through worse. Papa had gone through worse. Hell, Steve went through worse every time he was called to even the most basic mission. 

Papa’s rushed steps were Peter’s only indication that he was approaching before metal fingers lifted his chin. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was slightly agape as he inspected the injury. He tilted Peter’s head so it was in the light and pushed his hair off his forehead, making the cut and bruise look worse than they actually were. 

The dull thudding of socked feet running into the living room meant Steve was here too. 

“What happened?” Steve asked, a little breathless. 

“Nothing!” Peter cried, twisting his head out of his father’s grip, “I fell at gymnastics. You guys can stop freaking out. It’s nothing.” 

Papa’s wide eyes narrowed at Peter’s outburst and Peter looked back at the ground. Papa grabbed Peter’s wrist and started towards the bathroom. 

“Steve, watch the pasta,” Papa barked over his shoulder, all traces of joking gone as he pushed open the bathroom door and nudged Peter towards the counter with the sink. 

“Sit,” He said, voice quieter but still stern. 

Peter hefted himself up to do as he was told, though he kicked his feet on the cabinet below him, crossed his arms and sneered. He wasn’t a little kid and it wasn’t like this was a big deal. Sure, he didn’t really know what he was thinking. Of course, his dad would be pissed and of course, he would be worried, but it wasn’t like Peter couldn’t take them. 

“What happened?” Papa pressed, digging through the medicine cabinet for antiseptic, band-aids and an old hand towel to wash the cut. 

“I fell on the beam,” Peter mumbled, wiping a stream off blood that almost went into his eye, “And you know it will heal in like ten minutes, right? You don’t need to baby me.” 

Papa’s hands paused in the cabinet as he twisted his head towards Peter with a glare so severe Peter ducked his head. He lifted his hand holding the barely used tube of antiseptic and pointed towards Peter as a warning, “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. And what, was the beam a group of teenagers with too much testosterone?” 

Peter didn’t lift his head and could barely answer above a whisper, “No.” 

“You sure you ain’t Steve’s kid?” Papa grumbled, gingerly putting a finger under Peter’s chin to lift his head and press the cold compress against the cut even though the skin was knitting up, the bleeding had stop and the deep purple bruise was now a yellowish-green. 

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and hissed, jerking his head away. When his dad didn’t relent, Peter grabbed his wrist and tried to push it away. 

“Quit it, Peter,” Papa snapped, and Peter dropped his hand, “What the hell were you thinking anyway? And don’t give me more crap about how you fell unless you fell into someone’s fist.” 

Peter shrugged as Papa cleaned dirt and blood from the healing cut, “You should’ve seen the other guy?” 

Papa rolled his eyes at Peter’s joke. Maybe he really was Steve’s son. 

“Was it that Flash kid?” He continued, and Peter leaned back, eyebrows quirked in shock, “‘Cause if it was, I’m gonna kick that brat’s ass myself, I swear to God.”

That made Peter laugh, the loud kind where he tilted his head back and cackled. The idea of the pretentious, all talk, scrawny rich boy actually working up the nerve to hit Peter at all, let alone enough to leave a mark, was outrageously funny. 

The corner of Papa’s mouth quirked in confused, “What’s so funny?” 

Peter’s giggles died down when he explained, “Flash hitting me. He’s a pacifist. And he’d be too worried about losing his place at school to do anything to me.” 

Papa huffed a laugh and shook his head. He took off the towel and put a thin layer of antiseptic on the cut that was already pink and scarring, “Alright fine. But don’t think I’m letting this go.” He smoothed Peter’s hair back and stuck a green band-aid on the cut, then leaned away and crossed his arms to give Peter his best pissed-dad-look, “I don’t want this to happen again, do you understand?” 

Peter nodded a little solemnly. Papa handed him the damp rag and nodded towards the door, “Put that in the hamper and get started on your homework. Dinner will be ready in twenty.” 

Peter nodded and hopped off the counter while Papa twisted out of his way so he could get out. 

When he was gone, Bucky put his hands on the counter and let out a long exhale. His shoulders sagged by his ears like a hundred bricks sat on his back. 

This was a slippery slope Peter had started and Bucky was terrified half to death of what would happen if he couldn’t get him to stop. There was only one person who would make sure he could.

***

“Sounds like a coping mechanism.” 

Bucky cocked an incredulous brow at his therapist, “Coping mechanism?” 

Dr. Kafka shrugged, “I’ve heard of worse. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t good. Especially not when we take into consideration Peter’s background. But it’s not something that can’t be solved.” 

“You think the dog will help?” 

They’d been talking about a therapy dog for about a year now, even before the adoption was finalized. Dr. Kafka talked ad nauseum about how it would help, and Peter yammered consistently about what they’d name the dog and what color collar it would have and how there was a pet groomer right next to Delmar’s. 

Bucky added their name to the list of candidates for one, but with all the training and tests the dog had to go through first, it would be some time before they got one. 

“Probably, but you’re still third on the list for the next one and we should find something that would help now,” Dr. Kafka explained. 

Bucky huffed and leaned back in his plush armchair, “What do you suggest?” 

Dr. Kafka smiled and tilted her head, “Why don’t we bring in Peter and we can come up with a few ideas together.” 

***

Peter had to find something simple, but meaningful. Something to take his mind off everything so he’d only focus on the task in front of him. Not homework, not gymnastics, not anything that required more brain power than simple motor functions but in the end was enough to keep the guilt away. 

Dr. Kafka noted that if Peter ever felt so stressed his skin crawled or guilty that he wanted to tear his hair out, he just needed to devote his entire attention to something…else. 

Legos? No, best not to use something that was already associated with fun. Rock climbing? Too physically taxing. Movie watching? Not mentally stimulating enough. Crosswords? Too mentally stimulating. None of these were meaningful tasks, anyway. 

Peter was sent home with the task to find something before their next session, so he had something to report back on. And to see if this method would work at all. 

He was nearly in tears at the end of the session after they talked for an hour to come up with nothing. Papa wrapped an arm around his shoulders and suggested they get burgers for dinner and worry about coming up with ideas later. 

Peter nodded, a little begrudgingly, but was over it an hour later when he had two burgers in his system and the finale of _American Ninja Warrior_ on T.V. 

***

On a warm Saturday morning, when Papa didn’t have work and the sun had already shunned right through the blinds and heated up the living room, Peter jumped onto the couch beside his father. His dingy, hand-me-down laptop he got from May rocked on his knees and threatened to crash on the floor. 

Papa hissed and caught it with his left hand, “Jesus Petrushka, are you trying to break things?” 

Peter ignored him, a cheeky grin spread across his face as he twisted and sat correctly on the couch and pushed his laptop towards his father, “I found it.” 

“Found what?” Papa asked, tilting the computer his way to read the screen. 

On it was a blog post with the title in large, bolded font **“The Legend of the Thousand Paper Cranes.”**

He began to read down the page when Peter asked, “Do you remember when I read that book _Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes_? It was a while ago, when we were at…well, you know.” 

“Of course, I remember,” Papa mumbled. He didn’t. 

“I was looking up stuff to do like Dr. Kafka said, and this came up and I thought it could work. And I get a wish at the end, which is cool. The girl in the book died before she finished but I’m not dying, so…” Peter trailed off and leaned forward on his arm to peer at his dad’s face, who was intently reading the article.

“Papa?”

“Hm?” 

“You haven’t said anything.” 

Papa cleared his throat, looked over at Peter and smiled. His eyes were a little damp like dust or an eyelash fell in them. He brought his hand up and smoothed it over Peter’s hair, “It sounds great Petya. Tell you what, why don’t we make it a family project? We can ask Steve when he comes home if he wants to help. Lord knows he needs to do something that isn’t arguing with Tony or jumping off cliffs without a parachute.” 

Peter laughed, “That was one time, Papa.” 

“One time too many. Now budge over, kid, you’re practically sitting on me.” 

***

The _Senbazuru_ , or the One Thousand Origami Cranes, was believed to bring good fortune to the creator. Some believed it could bring recovery from injury or illness. If the _Senbazuru_ is completed in a year, then this recovery would be granted upon them. Bucky had a pretty good idea why Peter chose this as a coping mechanism. 

And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for Bucky to do it, too. 

When Steve slugged through the door at half past six, shucking his jacket and wiping leftover soot from his cheeks, Peter immediately ran over and rambled about his and Bucky’s idea. Steve was, of course, ecstatic. He loved family activities, whether it be visiting museums, walking in the park or collectively cleaning the house. 

Bucky bought a pack of fifteen hundred origami papers off amazon for eighteen bucks. Two days later it was on their apartment doorstep. 

They had to wait until Wednesday to start when Steve came home from a new mission he was called in for in the wee hours of Monday morning. 

Leading up to it Peter spent too much time organizing the paper by color and design, then mixing them up to start over again. Papa let him use five pieces to practice before Steve came home. Peter used the small instruction sheet included in the box to make a crooked frog and something that was supposed to be a butterfly. 

Steve stumbled through the door during late dusk Wednesday night. He still adorned his Captain America uniform because he hadn’t had the energy to change at the tower. Even though he had wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a good night’s sleep in his own bed beside his best guy, he ended up with an armful of teenage boy. 

“Oof,” He grunted when Peter ran into him, wrapping him up in a hug. He wiggled one arm free from Peter’s vice-like grip, because for a scrawny kid he sure was strong, and stiffly patted him on the back, “Missed you too, kid.” 

Peter looked up with gleamy eyes and cheered, “We’ve been waiting for you before we start!” 

Papa laughed from his spot on the couch, their episode of Law and Order forgotten, “He’s practically torn that box apart waiting for you, Stevie. Good thing you came back today, or he would’ve lost his patience.” 

Steve used the last bit of his energy to tilt his head back and laugh before stepping out of Peter’s embrace, “Let me just change and we’ll get started.” 

Peter had countless tutorial videos saved on his YouTube account. He cued them up on the T.V. and practically bounced in his seat while he waited for Steve to come out. Papa put a gentle hand on his shoulder and mumbled, “Relax, hon, or you’ll put a hole through the sofa.” 

Steve walked back into the room, stifling a yawn. He wore sweats and an old _Decathlon National Champions_ t-shirt. He sat down beside Bucky and put his head on his shoulder. Bucky pressed a kiss to Steve’s temple and Steve smiled and cuddled closer. 

Usually, Peter would gag until Steve laughed and Papa would half-heartedly swat Peter’s arm. Now, Peter just grinned and pressed play. 

They ended up watching five hours of tutorials all together, though Bucky made them turn in for the night at some point and watch the rest after school, work and whatever extracurricular Peter had the next day. 

When they got around to making them, Steve ripped his paper, Peter took thirty minutes to make one that was lopsided, and Papa’s was perfect on the first try. 

***

The first one hundred took the longest. Peter spent every free minute he had (which were few and far between) meticulously folding and unfolding and refolding. 

Steve was the worst. He would get about halfway through finishing one before twisting a bit too tight and folding a tad too hard and the paper would rip. He’d sigh and pick up a new piece, muttering, “You know, I could probably draw one thousand cranes, _real_ cranes, and be done before I made one of these.” 

Papa was, without a doubt, the most efficient. All it took was him figuring it out the first time before he could fold five at the rate Peter could one. 

In the end, Steve had only made four, Papa made about sixty and Peter made a little less than forty. 

Towards the tail end of the first hundred, Papa and Peter were folding them at the kitchen table. Peter had finished his homework and the dishes were washed and put away. 

“You know,” Papa started, keeping his eyes on his crane, “you’re supposed to get a wish at the end of this.” 

“Yup,” Peter said, chewing on his lip as he got to a particularly hard part of folding. 

“You figured out what that wish is gonna be?” 

Peter paused, blinking a few times. He hadn’t given it much thought. He knew vaguely that he wanted the guilt to just stop, but without something to keep his mind off it, he wasn’t sure how that was gonna happen. 

“I don’t really know,” Peter answered, “But I’ll figure it out before we hit one thousand.” 

***

At two hundred, they started to make them wherever they could.

Steve made them during Skype calls, meticulously folding them away from the camera but got caught on several occasions when senators, secretaries, or representatives noticed that he was paying too much attention to something off screen and not on the conversation they were having. 

The papers Peter kept stored in his backpack were confiscated when his English teacher told him one too many times to put it away. She caught him folding one beneath his desk when he was supposed to be annotating an article about reusable energy used in New York City. 

She marched to his desk and stuck out a weathered hand for him to put all his papers in. She stored them in her desk drawer and called his father, who held back a laugh and answered every snap with a serious, “Yes ma’am. Won’t happen again, ma’am. “

Bucky made them in the shop during his lunch breaks. Occasionally, if he needed to step back and figure out what the hell was going on with a certain car that wouldn’t start, he’d pull a slip of paper from his pocket and begin folding. 

“Look alive, Barnes. I don’t pay you to play with paper,” Mr. Reilly scolded from his seat on his beat up, frayed office chair while he watched the Powerball. 

Bucky grimaced an apologetic smile and put the paper back into his pocket. 

One Saturday, when Peter was supposed to be getting, holding and passing Mr. Stark tools while he tinkered and welded a new important invention, Peter attempted to teach himself how to fold a crane one-handed. 

Part of the machine burst and oil started spewing out like a hose across the floor. Mr. Stark covered it with one hand and sputtered a surprised, “Shit!” before reaching a hand out for a tool. 

Peter was too busy focusing on his crane that he hadn’t even noticed the commotion or poor Mr. Stark’s coated floors and shirt. 

“Pete. Peter. Peter!” 

Peter glanced to the side before he jumped, snatching the correct tool beside him and pressing it into Tony’s hand. Tony quickly repaired the machine before he huffed and leaned back in his stool, staring at Peter through the corner of his eyes with his best unimpressed glare. 

“Sorry,” Peter squeaked, a half-made crane still perched in his hand. 

Tony sighed very slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Kid, I love you, but I cannot have the last thing people read about me be ‘Tony Stark dies in a paper crane accident’, okay? I just can’t.” 

After that, they all figured making them at home was for the best. 

***

Even though they had stuck to making the cranes in the apartment, usually while watching television or lying in bed without a smidge of fatigue, by four hundred the cranes managed to get everywhere. 

They sprinkled around the kitchen and bathroom counters, behind pots and toothbrush holders. They snuck into the straps of Cap’s shield. They fell behind the couch, into Peter’s backpack and gym bag and Papa’s shoes. They perched on the bookshelf in between Peter’s awkward school pictures, Papa’s self-help books and Steve’s _Russian for Beginners_ guides. 

Papa even plucked one from Peter’s hair when they were at the grocery store, laughing and saying, “Looks like this one missed you, Petya.” 

Some made it to May’s living room during their Sunday night dinners. She sent Bucky a text with a picture of it cradled in her hand. 

_looks like this little guy got left behind_

Even though it was eight at night, New York traffic (motor and pedestrian) was insane and Peter had school the next morning, Peter convinced his father to go with him across Queens to get it. 

When they arrived back home past Peter’s bedtime, Bucky shoed him off to bed while he went on the computer to order a new pack of paper and a blue cloth box, big enough to hold a thousand tiny cranes. 

***

They hit a lull around six hundred. 

Every Friday they’d count the cranes one by one in hopes they were close to one thousand, but they couldn’t seem to get past that six hundred. 

They all sighed and tilted back in their hardwood kitchen chairs. 

“How,” Steve groaned, rubbing his eyes, “have we made so many and we’re still not done?” 

“Tell me about it,” Papa mumbled. He leaned forward with his eyes closed to rest his elbows on the table and rub his temples. The checkered table cloth became wrinkled under his arms. Steve tugged it a tad to straighten it out. 

“We still have,” Peter twisted in his seat to check the calendar, one he chose with America’s Favorite Dogs pictured for every month, hanging on the fridge by a Darth Vader magnet, “seven months left? Most people said they don’t even come close to finishing before the years up.” 

“I guess we ain’t like normal people,” Papa grumbled, still massaging his forehead, “Guess we’ll just have to keep making them then.” 

They increased their speed tenfold. Sure, it still took a long time considering their schedules were constantly packed and they rarely found time within the apartment that wasn’t spent one homework, cleaning, cooking and sleeping. 

They made them while they watched _American Ninja Warrior_ or _Stranger Things_. On weekends they’d fold and fold and then groan when they saw it was three in the morning because where the hell did the time go. Bucky would sigh and say it was time to turn in. 

Peter was often found asleep at the table with a half-folded crane cradled in his hand where there used to be a pencil and a sheet of homework resting beneath his head. Steve was caught watching tutorials when he used to spend all his time writing debriefs and handling phone calls. When Bucky needed to pace, he twisted the crane again and again until his brain was at ease. Where he used to want to flee, feeling eyes that weren’t there tickling his neck or a voiceless bark commanding him to go here and do that, he found himself calmly creating origami on the couch. 

Their fingers were always sore and littered with countless paper cuts, but their hearts felt soft and calm. 

***

“And you just pull that part down like this.” 

“Like this?” 

“Yeah, gentle though. Gentle!” 

“Shoot. Oh, sorry, Peter!” Ned apologized sincerely over his ripped crane. He looked down at its torn wing, remorseful like he’d done it to a real bird, “This is harder than I thought.” 

Peter shrugged, “It’s okay. My dad ordered a whole new box of paper, so don’t worry if you rip them.”

It was a stormy Friday night. They were supposed to go to the movies then meet Ned’s dad at Central Park for ice cream, but the rain started thick before the last bell and they had to run to Peter’s with their hoodless jackets held over their heads. They were soaked by the time they made it through the front door and Papa told them to go change before they caught pneumonia while he ordered a pizza. 

Now, they sat cross-legged on the scratchy carpet in Peter’s room. The rumbling of thunder and sharp darts of rain whacking Peter’s window filled the room. 

At first, Peter offered to rent a movie and then they could study for their physics exam on Monday. That was the plan until Ned saw some paper cranes on Peter’s desk and asked Peter to show him how to make one. 

“Did you see Liz during practice when you were on stage?” Ned asked with his voice high and rushed like he suddenly remembered to ask Peter the question that was poking at his brain all afternoon. 

Peter flushed the color of new bricks and skinned knees and focused on the origami in his hand, “No,” of course he had, “Why?” 

“I swear she kept looking at you. I swear! I think she was looking at you,” Ned rambled, and Peter’s face flushed deeper. 

“That’s because I was on stage,” Peter scoffed though his hands were a little shaky. His crane was coming out crooked. He huffed and started over. 

“I don’t think so,” Ned rebutted, “I think she might like you.” 

The crane’s tiny beak tore under Peter’s fingers. He took a shaky breath through his nose and asked, “Did you finish the new season of _Stranger Things_ yet?” 

Ned took the bait. He tilted his head back, a grin plastered on his face, bunching up his cheeks and stretching his lips, “Yeah dude! Like a week ago! Did you?” 

Peter shook his head, “No, my dad says I can only watch one a day. He says it’s so I don’t rot my brain with too much T.V. but I’m pretty sure it’s because he can’t sit still for more than one.” 

“What episode are you on?” Ned questioned, grabbing a fresh piece of paper to start on his next one. 

The conversation continued like that, talking about T.V. shows and homework assignments and new books Peter read and their project for the robotics club they had yet to start but without a doubt would win first place. 

Their laughter beat out the thunder and they no longer noticed the slap of rain. They didn’t watch the time either, so they were shocked when Bucky poked his head in and told them that two in the morning was too late for boys their age to be up. 

They scrambled to get ready for sleep, Peter ran into his bed and Ned into his sleeping bag on the floor beside him. About a dozen paper cranes covered the floor. Peter went to sleep easy and didn’t wake up until late the next morning. 

***

Bucky usually made a point of not watching the clock when he was up this late. It was a Tuesday. He had work the next morning. He’d have to get up early to make Peter breakfast. 

His eyes were beginning to burn with fatigue and his eyelids felt like heavy steel wool against his corneas, but his mind wasn’t ready for sleep. It moved like a freight train about to derail into flashbacks of electric shocks, blood-soaked fingers, and mothers’ cries. 

Nights like this happened often enough. Staying up to push away a no doubt nightmare filled sleep was better than waking up the whole apartment with his screaming. 

So, he sat on the couch, the television muted on a ‘90’s sitcom and an array of paper cranes littering the coffee table. He had one half made in his hand when the soft, yet loud enough to warn that someone was approaching, footsteps padded into the living room. 

The back of the couch dipped and swayed Bucky with it. He kept his eyes on his bird, but his lips quirked up at the corner. The tension in his mind, bending like a mental spoon about to crack, eased a smidge. 

“Hey, soldier,” Steve breathed into his ear, “You still up?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Bucky responded and patted the cushion beside him, “Wouldn’t hurt to have a little something to lean on, though.” 

Steve breathed a short laugh through his nose before walking around the couch to sit next to Bucky. He leaned his cheek on his shoulder and Bucky turned to press a long, firm kiss to his temple. 

“How many do you think we made so far?” Steve asked, looking at the cranes spread across his once clean coffee table. 

Bucky shrugged, shaking Steve a tad, “About five hundred? I’ll have Petya count them with me tomorrow.” 

Steve nodded, nuzzling a little closer on Bucky’s arm, “You’re a good dad, making all these with him.” 

“It’s no trouble,” Bucky responded quietly though his heart tugged a tad, “Least I could do after everything. And it’s, I don’t know, therapeutic? It gets me out of my head for a while.” 

Steve shuffled up a bit to look Bucky in the eye, “You’re a good dad regardless, Buck. Pete’s lucky to have you, and he knows it. Kid practically follows in your footsteps like you’re God.” 

Bucky flushed and shook his head, “Christ, I’m about the farthest thing from any god,” He turned over and pressed another kiss to Steve’s neck, “But thank you.” 

Bucky finished his crane and placed it on the coffee table. When he didn’t make a move to get another piece of paper, Steve started to rub his arm. 

“You know,” Steve purred, leaning real close to Bucky’s ear and suddenly Bucky was flushing for a whole new reason, “I happen to know something else that’s therapeutic.” 

Bucky had to bite his lip to stop from cackling. Peter was asleep, after all, and if he wanted a piece of what Steve was offering then it was best to not wake him. He did roll his eyes and groan, “Jesus, Rogers, that was probably the worst line I’ve heard in my hundred plus years on this goddamn Earth.” 

Steve swatted him on the arm and retorted, “You want some or not, Barnes?” 

“Hell yeah, I want some,” Bucky growled, leaning forward to nip Steve’s jaw, “Don’t gotta come up with no silly lines to get me in the sack, sugar.” 

It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes, heaving himself up from the couch and offering his hand to Bucky to help him up too. 

The television was left on and the cranes were still littered on the table. They’d just take care of them in the morning. 

***

The cafeteria was never Peter’s favorite place. Everyone was yelling just to be heard and it smelt like burnt vegetables and spoiled milk. Tables, like in many books and television shows that Peter didn’t know would transfer into real life, were separated by social groups. 

Ned and Peter sat alone. 

It was nice, sometimes, having a table to themselves. No one would comment on the stench of boiled eggs from Peter’s sandwich or roll their eyes when Ned got a little too loud about something they might find stupid. 

Peter snuck some paper in this morning, wanting to finish up this set of one hundred before his meet this weekend. Ned sat beside him, nose stuck in his brand new _Dungeon Master’s Guidebook_. They’d been wanting to start a campaign for a while, but with their only real friends being each other and the book stating they’d need at least four people, they hadn’t had a chance. 

“You think Seymour would wanna join?” Ned asked. 

Peter shook his head, finishing one crane and grabbing a new piece of paper to start another, “No, he has temple on Saturdays.” 

“Hmm,” Ned thought, actually stroking his chin, for another potential candidate, “What about Sally?” 

Peter shook his head again, “She’s already in a campaign.” 

Ned listed off the other four people they were close enough with to ask, and there was always a reason why they couldn’t do it. 

Charles’ mom won’t let him out of the house for more than three hours if it’s a non-academic related activity, Betty didn’t like role play games unless she was in theater class, Abraham had church school and tutored math on the weekends, and Cindy would try to take charge. 

“How about Liz?” Ned asked, and Peter sputtered a nervous laugh and almost ripped his crane. 

“No, no no no. Not Liz. No. Anyone else, just not her,” Peter stammered, his face morphing into a deep red. 

She was sitting at the table in front of them. Her back was to them, but Peter still caught himself staring at the back of her head. 

“Why not? She’s nice. And maybe this will give you guys the chance to talk,” Ned rationalized but Peter still shook his head. 

Maybe she had heard them say her name or perhaps she felt Peter’s eyes burning her neck, but Liz turned around and looked right at Peter. 

His heart nearly stopped. She caught him staring. His face was still red. There was a bright green crane in his hand. 

She, because she was probably the kindest girl Peter knew, smiled softly and lifted her hand to wave. 

His throat clicked as he tried to swallow. His hands were frozen on the table in front of him until Ned sharply elbowed his side. 

Peter lifted his hand, crane and all, and waved back. 

“Yeah, okay,” He said, voice cracking, “maybe we can ask Liz.” 

They asked her before decathlon practice. She smiled sadly and claimed that she’d love to, but she had golf and tennis practice on the weekends. Also, her dad was kind of weird about her going to people’s houses if he hadn’t met their parents. 

Peter couldn’t breathe when he said that it was alright. They’d find another time, maybe, in the future. 

It was worth a shot. 

***

They were whittling down to the last one hundred. There wasn’t as much of a rush anymore. They only made them because they wanted to, not because they wanted it to be done or they were in a pinch for time. 

Peter sat at his desk, _One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ in front of him held open by his elbows. He was reading it a bit too fast. He wanted to savor it a little longer, absorb each word as if they were all equally important. He took a break halfway through, grabbing a floral piece of paper to start folding. 

“Petya!” Papa called from the living, “Start getting ready. We’re leaving for May’s in fifteen!” 

“Crap!” Peter hissed under his breath, tossing the crane onto his desk and grabbing a sticky note for a bookmark. 

It was Sunday. They always went to May’s for dinner on Sundays. It just happened to slip his mind. 

Peter scrambled to his closet, yanking out a sweatshirt to keep him warm in the chilled fall air. When he pulled it out, he accidentally knocked over a pile of clothes laying a little crookedly on a shelf beneath it. 

He dropped the sweatshirt and scooped up the pile in his arms and shoved them back onto the shelf, but one lone piece of clothing slipped from his grasp. 

He bent to pick it back up but paused for a moment when he saw what it was. 

It was another sweatshirt, one that was red and blue with a large black spider on the front. He’d bought it almost a year ago but hadn’t once worn it. He hadn’t found the reason to yet. He hadn’t quite figured out how to…

He gingerly picked it up and held it at face level. There was so much in the stitching, so many stories that had yet to happen. 

“Peter, let’s go!” 

“Coming!” Peter called, folding the sweatshirt and shoving it behind the pile of clothes. 

He’d wear it someday, he would. Just not yet. 

It wasn’t time yet. 

***

In the end, they made over one thousand. 

Papa, Steve, and Peter sat at the kitchen table, frantically organizing the cranes into piles of one hundred. The counting seemed to be more tedious than making the damn things, and that was mostly because Steve mumbling numbers under his breath messed Bucky up and Bucky snapping at Steve to quit it messed Peter up. 

When there were no more cranes to count, they counted the piles. 

Ten piles. Four left over. One thousand and four cranes. 

None of them spoke for a moment, letting the air fill with the hum of silence while they each recounted each pile in their minds until their heads all snapped up. 

“Are you guys getting a thousand and four?” Steve asked. Papa and Peter nodded. 

Then, they all grinned and cheered. Steve wrapped Peter in a quick hug before kissing Bucky’s cheek and Bucky ran his fingers through Peter’s hair. 

They ordered pizza to celebrate and curled up on the couch to watch a rented movie. They fell asleep like that. Peter with his arm tucked beneath his head as he leaned against the armrest and Steve and Bucky curled together under one throw blanket. 

Everything felt nice, calm. A happy calm. The kind of calm you feel on Christmas morning where everything’s good now because there are presents and homemade breakfast, but you know deep in your mind that tomorrow will just be a little disappointing when things go back to normal. 

This wasn’t any different. 

Soon, nights after dinner that were once spent together folding tiny pieces of paper were now filled with the scratch of pencil on paper, the low voices from the nighttime news and keys quickly typing on a laptop. Movie nights were spent just watching the movie. There was no more laughter when a crane was found behind the couch or stuck in Papa’s metal arm. 

The origami paper was tossed into the junk drawer in the kitchen. The tutorial videos were at the bottom of Peter’s watch history. The cranes were stacked in the cloth box in the corner of the kitchen. 

They eventually told Peter to keep them in his room. They were his idea, after all, and Papa said he needed them the most. 

Peter stuck a lid on the cloth box, a strong feeling of pride reawakened tight in his chest. He didn’t think they’d finish, either on time or they’d get bored halfway through and find something else to do, but they did it. 

He sat up on his knees to slide it into the back of his closet behind his winter clothes and outgrown gym wear. He’d pull it out someday when he figured out what to do with them all. He heard of some people giving them for presents at weddings or when a baby was born. He didn’t know anyone who was engaged or pregnant, and he wouldn’t give these away anyway. He’d probably fasten them on strings and hang them on a wooden holder like he’d seen some people do on the internet. But he had time to figure that out. He wasn’t in a rush. 

As he was pulling his box of clothes back into place, Peter realized slowly, like breaching the top of water in the deep end of a pool or digging a knife into a thick man’s stomach, that he never figured out what to wish for. 

He sat back numbly, a dull _thunk_ as his rear hit the carpet, while he tried to rationalize what in the hell he was gonna do now. 

***

Papa knocked on Peter’s door to the tune of shave and a haircut. When Peter called for him to come in, Papa peeked his head through the door, “Got a minute?” 

Peter nodded, resting on his stomach on his mattress with a new novel in his hands. Papa came in and sat beside Peter, who closed his book and put it aside as he sat up. 

“What’s going on?” Peter asked. Papa lifted a finger for Peter to wait a moment as he fished his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked it, taking a little longer than most since he could only use his flesh thumb, and opened a text that held one message and one picture. 

He clicked the picture and passed Peter his phone. On the screen was a giant dog with fur as big and white as a cloud after a storm. Its mouth was open like it was grinning. It wore a red vest that’s side had stitched in big block letters: SERVICE DOG. DO NOT PET. 

Beneath the picture was a text from Dr. Kafka. 

_Guess who just got to the top of the list right when this girl finished her training? ;)_

Peter stared at the picture, eyes burning a tad and his chest squeezing. He turned towards his father with a look of disbelief, “Is that…is she…?” He looked back down at the picture and blinked. He hesitantly reached one finger out and stroked the screen, “Is she ours?” 

A closed grin spread across Papa’s face. He nodded and said, “Yup, she’s ours, Petya.” 

Peter laughed and wrapped his arms around his father’s neck for a hug. He almost smacked him in the face with his phone, but Papa didn’t say anything. He hugged Peter just as tight. 

***

The next time Peter walked home from practice alone, it was only because both Marlene and Isabella caught the stomach flu. Papa wasn’t too keen on him walking alone when dark was threatening to close in, but he was stuck at the shop for another few hours and Steve was on another mission. 

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Papa said through the phone, the obnoxious bass from an AC/DC song blaring through Mr. Reilly’s boombox and the speaker on Felicia’s phone right into Peter’s ear, “Maybe I should just call May and see if she’ll get you. She’s usually back from work by now.” 

“Papa, I’ll be fine,” Peter whined, slumping in the pink plush chair in Felicia’s office. 

She sat across from him, filling out paperwork while a VHS recording of the 1996 USA National Gymnastics Championships played on the box T.V. behind her. 

“It’s a long walk and it’s gonna be dark. At least let me call her,” Papa said back, voice firm but tight which meant he was nervous. 

“Fiiine,” Peter groaned, lulling his head over to the T.V. as his dad said bye. He reached over and dropped the landline back onto its receiver. He knew he shouldn’t have called his dad, he got nervous too quickly, but Felecia had caught him on his way out with her arms crossed and one eyebrow lifted to ask if his dad knew he was going home alone. 

Papa called back after a minute to begrudgingly say May was still at work, which left him with no other option than to let Peter go home alone. That didn’t stop him from keeping Peter on the phone for ten minutes to explain exactly what to do if anything, and he meant _anything_ seemed off. 

Peter wanted to roll his eyes and tell him that _yes, he knew how to fight people off. He knew how to get away if someone tried to get him. There were skills drilled so deep into his brain they were like gopher holes looping through the ground._

He didn’t say anything of the sort. He just promised to get home safe and see his father for dinner before he hung up the phone, said goodbye to Felicia, and ran out the front door to head back home. 

It wasn’t quite dusk yet. The light was morphing from bright yellow to a soft orange and though everyone was speaking and shouting and laughing around him, the air felt very quiet. 

He kept his eyes on the clean concrete of Sunnyside which morphed to cracked and gum stained when he got closer to his apartment. The crowds that lined the streets dissipated as did the copious amount of sunlight. Streetlights were flicked on though there was still some light left in the sky. 

As Peter approached a familiar alleyway, loud yells and grunts of pain flooded out of the opening. Peter crept towards the noise, peeking inside to see what was causing it. 

In the scum stained corner where the air was soaked with garbage and the decomposing stench of rats were three boys beating the shit out of a kid half their size. 

Peter realized suddenly, like the idea took his head and smashed it against that brick wall, what the _Senbazuru_ granted him. 

“Hey!” He screamed, catching the trio’s attention and making them stop for just a split moment. He sprinted towards them, feet scuffing the filthy ground, “Pick on someone your own size!” 

The biggest scoffed, “Is that supposed to be – “

He couldn’t finish his sentence before Peter broke his jaw.

**Author's Note:**

> its really fun to write petya and bucky again. hopefully this gets me rolling for part 2, which ive already figured out how to fix some of the parts i don't like. i'm not quite sure when that will be posted since i don't want to rush it and im really not happy with it at them moment, but i hope this is good enough for now.  
> thank you all for reading again!  
> -emily  
> [my tumblr](https://blondieewritess.tumblr.com/)


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